I was about to shut the door and lock it again, but he slipped his fingers through the crack and said, “Just for a second? C’mon! I just want to wait and talk until Marie gets back.”
“I’m doing my homework!”
Ignoring me, he wrenched the door open and squeezed more of himself inside. I backed off instinctively. I took a few steps away from him, and now Derek was standing in my bedroom, staring at me. He pulled the door closed behind him.
My heart started to beat faster. It was like his very presence had sucked the life out of the room. He was just standing there, looking at me with that vile grin of his. His eyes going from mine, traveling farther down my body, making me feel small and uncomfortable. With a blush I realized that I was standing in front of him wearing nothing but a nightshirt and my underwear. I felt burning heat prickling on my cheeks. Oh God!
Derek was always ugly, but there was something even uglier about him tonight. He looked disheveled. Sweaty. Like he had been up for three or four nights drinking. I could smell the booze on him, wafting over to me like the sickly sweet smell of a freshly painted room. His clothes were dirty and wrinkled. His hair seemed greasy. His face sweaty and that big, bulbous Italian nose of his looked red.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
Suddenly everything that Marie had been saying about Derek over the past few weeks flooded back to me.
I think he’s been following me.
I’m serious, Cherie, he really freaks me out.
Sometimes he scares me.
Something in his eyes.
He’s CRAZY, Cherie.
My mouth suddenly went dry, and with a lightning bolt of realization, I knew that I was in danger. I looked to Derek for clues, but he looked away from me and started walking around the bedroom, making himself at home. He walked over to my beanbag chair and picked up the headphones. He put them on and asked, “So whatcha listening to?”
“Listen, Derek,” I said in a voice that sounded a lot more confident than I actually felt. “No one’s home. I can’t have you in here! I promise, I’ll tell Marie you came by, okay? But I want you to leave now!”
But Derek wasn’t listening. He looked over to the turntable and muttered, “Oh yeah. You like Bowie. He’s a faggot, you know . . .” Then he took the headphones off and let them drop to the beanbag chair again. “Marie told me you liked Bowie. I can’t stand that shit. He ain’t a real man. What kind of a man wears fuckin’ makeup?”
I watched him as he walked around the room, surveying everything. He’d randomly pick up a book, or a record, and look it over. Say something dumb, like “Algebra, huh? I useta hate algebra. I dunno why they make you learn that shit.” Touching everything. Putting his hands on my stuff. I wanted to tell him to fuck off, but I didn’t have a voice. I knew that if I tried to yell at him right then, it would come out as a dry squeak.
Then he stopped, and looked at me with a curious expression on his face. “You look exactly like your sister,” he said in a strange, melancholy voice. “I just can’t get over it.”
I didn’t answer him, afraid that anything I might say would cause him to lose it with me.
He leaned forward a little, and added in a hoarse whisper, “Are you . . . completely identical?” When he said this, he glanced down at my crotch, lifting his eyebrows then bringing his eyes to mine.
His physical presence scared me. At the Bowie concert, I’d felt superhuman. Back then I felt like I was eleven feet tall. But now, with Derek standing only feet away from me, I felt like what I was: I felt like a fifteen-year-old girl who was about to pee her pants out of sheer terror.
Please, leave me alone! my mind screamed. But my mouth did nothing; I just stared at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes.
What time is it?
Is it ten yet?
Fear and rage were building inside of me. Not so long ago I was on top of the world, the glitter queen, invincible and tough. Now this ugly, sweaty creep in bad need of a shower was standing in my bedroom, touching my things. Why wouldn’t he just leave? But more than the anger was the fear. If Derek had pulled out a gun on me right then, I wouldn’t have been surprised. I knew he was unstable. Forcing your way into someone’s bedroom and refusing to leave wasn’t normal behavior, was it? Derek was crazy, no doubt about it.
“Whatcha afraid of, Cherie?” he said, smiling at me, revealing a terrible glimpse of teeth. “You don’t have to be afraid of me! I won’t hurtcha!”
A mad part of me was desperate to believe him. But I didn’t, not really. I was more afraid than I had ever been my entire life. He looked at me like a hungry dog.
“Stop looking at me!” I snapped. He didn’t listen to me, though. He continued to stare, looking right through me. I felt like he could see right through my nightshirt. I felt totally embarrassed, humiliated, and terrified all at once. What the hell did Marie ever see in this creep?
When I was ten, my dad spanked me. I remember this clearly because it was one of the only times he ever did that. He caught me kissing a kid called Winnie, who used to live right down the street. Winnie was kind of a feral child; the others even called him Winnie the Wolf. He was always prowling the streets alone, and we never really saw his parents much. The house he lived in was run-down and shabby. He used to dress real scruffy, and was notorious for being a bad kid, and everyone in the neighborhood knew it. He would walk right into other kids’ front yards and beat the shit out of them for no reason. Right there, with the kids’ parents screaming bloody murder and running out of the house threatening to kick his ass. But Winnie didn’t care, and Winnie’s parents didn’t care, and for some strange reason I kind of liked Winnie. Winnie didn’t fit in either. The difference between Winnie and me was that Winnie was incapable of caring to fit in, and I guess for some strange reason I found that intriguing.
Winnie the Wolf was the first boy who ever kissed me. He tasted of bubble gum and cigarettes, and I didn’t really like it, but it was a strange enough sensation that I thought about it for a long time afterward.
I had been friends with Winnie for a while; I had smoked my first cigarette with him. It was a Sunday and I was standing on the corner with Winnie when we pressed our lips together and kissed. I’m not sure why we even did it. It wasn’t a real kiss—we were just kids imitating what we saw on TV. Our lips were tightly closed, and we just wiggled our heads from left to right in an imitation of passion, not really understanding what we were doing. Suddenly I heard my dad yelling “Cherie!”
When my dad turned the corner and yelled, he gave Winnie a look scary enough to make him split immediately. “I’ve been looking for you,” Daddy said in that low voice he used when he was mad. “You’re late for church!”
I started crying immediately. I knew from the look on my dad’s face that I was in a whole heap of trouble. He grabbed my hand and we started back toward the house. In a small voice I asked, “Am I going to church now, Daddy?”
“No, Cherie. You’re going to wait at the house. I’m going bring Mom, Marie, and Donnie over to the church . . . I’ll deal with you when I get back.”
Terrified, I started begging Dad to let me go to church. I was a good little Catholic girl. I had swallowed all of the stories of guilt and passion and sacrifice and damnation without question. I wanted to go pray for my immortal soul, because I had kissed a boy. I wanted to beg Jesus for forgiveness. But Dad wasn’t listening. He brought me to the house and told me to sit in the corner and wait for him. Grandma offered to stay behind with me, but Daddy said no, which made me even more terrified. Grandma was so sweet and softhearted that she would tremble and cry whenever we had to get a spanking. I guessed that he didn’t want Grandma to have to see it. I sat there, shaking and crying, a horrible desolate feeling inside of me. Daddy left, and the whole time that the family was gone I didn’t move a muscle. I sat there; the only movement I made was the jerky heaving of my shoulders as I cried. I heard the car pulling into the driveway after a while, and felt my stomach go to knots. When Dad
walked into the living room, he was carrying the paddle.
I’ll never forget that paddle. Mom had brought it back from a trip to Mexico: it was a little wooden paddle with a hand-painted image on it, of a guy in a sombrero spanking three red butts that were sticking up in the air. I thought it was funny when she first brought it back, right up until the first time she used it. As soon as I saw the paddle, I began to cry and beg Daddy not to do it.
Daddy looked straight ahead. I had never seen my dad like this. Then, without a word, he put me over his knee and spanked me. Looking back, I suppose it didn’t hurt so much, but the fact that I had disappointed my dad so much really did. I never forgot that. The memory is as fresh today as it ever was.
When he was done, he stared at me, his face a mixture of sadness and regret, and he said, “You stay away from that damned kid, Cherie, he’s bad news. I mean it, Kitten! Stay away!”
I was bawling, snot running down my face, hysterical, and I asked, “Why, Daddy? WHY?”
“Because I said so!”
After that, the subject of Winnie the Wolf was never raised again. I don’t know what happened to Winnie the Wolf. The family moved away and that was that. But now, with Derek staring at me in that creepy way, the memory came back to me, because for the first time in my life I realized exactly why my dad had spanked me. Because there is a certain type of person in this world, a type that has something black inside of their soul. Like Winnie. Like Derek. But Derek was somehow WORSE than Winnie the Wolf. Derek was what Winnie would grow into. Something not quite normal. Something more monster than man. My cheeks reddened as I remembered the way that Winnie’s lips felt against mine. I felt nauseous. I wished I had never kissed him. I wished that Winnie the Wolf were dead. Winnie and Derek both. I looked up at Derek, looked right into that red, ugly face. I wish I could kill them both myself, I thought. I wish I had the guts!
“Marie told me,” Derek said in a deep, phlegmy voice. He started to walk toward me, purposefully now. Like his mind was made up. “She told me . . . you were a virgin.”
I didn’t know where to look! I couldn’t believe what he was saying to me. I felt so embarrassed, so small, so damn scared. He reached out a hand and grabbed me by the arm.
“So pretty,” he said. “And fresh. I like girls who are fresh.”
I jerked my arm away. “Get away from me, Derek!”
“What’s the matter?” He smiled. “You don’t want a real man?”
Marie and Mom will be home soon, I thought to myself.
Very soon.
They’ll walk in the door together, and Derek will run.
Very soon.
Please.
Please come home.
Please . . .
I kept saying this as he came closer. Closer. I kept saying it as he grabbed me again, this time using both of his hands to clamp my shoulders tight. He put his face real close to mine, and I could smell his stinking breath as he said, “You’ll like it, I promise.” I tried to struggle, but he was bigger than me and stronger than me and he started pushing me toward the bed.
Please . . .
Please . . .
I kept saying this as he shoved me back onto the bed, sweeping my stuffed animals aside, and placed a sweaty palm over my mouth so I couldn’t yell. Stupid bastard! Couldn’t he see that I was so scared that I couldn’t yell if I tried?
He put his face close to mine. Too close for anyone to get. I could smell his breath. Cigarettes and stale booze, rot and decay. He was still smiling that idiotic smile.
“You’re gonna like it. You’re gonna thank me for this, I swear . . .” I closed my eyes. I could feel his hot breath against my face. I struggled furiously, but he pressed his hand against my mouth so hard I couldn’t breathe. “I have a thing for virgins,” he was saying from some faraway place. “Come on, Cherie . . . It won’t hurt. You’ll like it . . . I promise . . .”
I could feel my nightshirt being pulled up, and his free hand pulling my panties down roughly. He had his whole body weight pressed against me now, and as I struggled it became harder and harder to move. “Get . . . off . . . me . . . Derek!” I screamed. “Get . . . the HELL . . . OFF ME! GET OFF ME! GET OFF!”
I could feel it pressing against me. His thing. I could feel him rummaging around down there, unzipping himself, and he was breathing into my ear. “Stop fucking struggling, you’re gonna like it . . . you’re gonna thank me, now stop . . . fucking . . . struggling!”
Then he brought a hand up to his mouth and spit against his palm. He forced the hand down between my legs, smearing the slime on me. I could feel his thing pressing hard against me. Oh God. Oh God, this just can’t be happening.
When he pushed into me, I screamed. I had never felt pain like that. It was the most horrible piercing pain, and it emanated from deep inside of me. Like I was being torn open. He was thrusting into me, grunting into my ear each time he did. I literally went crazy . . . Finding strength I never knew I had, I started beating against him with my fists, and letting loose a scream from the very depths of my soul.
I was operating on pure instinct. All I could think to do was to hurt him so bad that he would get off of me. I started ripping at his hair, tearing it out of his head in clumps, scratching at his eyes, punching him. He tried to grab my wrists to make me stop, but there was no chance! I screamed, and beat against him, and tried to tear his flesh right open. In a frenzy, I managed to hurt him enough that he jerked back for a moment, and that fucking grin finally left his lips. As he pivoted back, his thing slipped out of me, and this gave me the leverage I needed. I brought my knees up to the fetal position and managed to shove them against his chest, pushing him back. Suddenly Derek, the aggressor, the bully, and the monster, was yelping like a kicked dog. I could see the bright red scratches across his face, the blood spotting where I opened up his skin. And the look on his face! Total and utter incomprehension. He staggered away, wrenching the sliding doors open and running for his life into the darkness, his pants still hanging half off him.
“GET THE FUCK OUT! I’LL KILL YOU, MOTHERFUCKER! GET OUT OF HERE! GET THE FUCK OUT!”
I was ready to kill. I had never, ever felt anger like that. I was shaking with fury and I could feel the anger and the pain and the adrenaline coursing through me. But Derek was gone. I had beaten him off.
I staggered over to the door, sobbing hysterically, and pulled it closed, snapping the lock back into place.
Snip.
Snip-snip.
I watched my hair fall to the bathroom floor, little blond tufts, little amputated parts of myself. Did I feel sad? Happy? I didn’t know. I didn’t know what I felt, apart from angry. I felt very angry, but I suppose I had always felt angry.
Snip.
Snip.
I felt hate. Hate is a powerful word; I liked the way it felt on my tongue. Hate. It’s a hard word, like a punch to the mouth. It leaves a taste of copper in there after you say it the right way. HATE.
I thought about the blood that drip-dripped down my legs, and the deep, searing pain Derek left behind. Oh God, he hurt me. He hurt me real bad.
Snip.
Off came another lock.
Derek liked them young, young and fresh. That’s what he told me. That’s why he told me he was doing it. Young and fresh. Just like I was. Just like I was before that night.
When Marie found me and I told her what happened, we made a decision not to tell Mom. Mom didn’t even know about Derek, and how could I talk about something like this with my mother? And even if we called the cops, I knew what Derek would say—that I had let him into the bedroom. If a girl lets a guy into a bedroom, then everybody knows that she was asking for it. Right? The only thing I could think of that was even worse than what just happened to me was the idea of everybody knowing about it. I could just imagine what they’d say, what they’d whisper about me behind my back. No, this had to be our secret. My secret. I decided that I would go to the grave without ever telling another living soul about what
happened with Derek.
In the weeks that followed the rape, I would discover that Derek had not only taken my virginity, he’d also left me a memento—a fucking infection. My mom had to take me to the doctor, which was a totally embarrassing experience. She never asked how I got it; I guess she was trying to be all cool and modern or something. Of course, I never told her what had happened.
But that was all still to come. That day I’d made a decision. That day I’d decided that I wasn’t going to be told what to do anymore, and that nobody was going to just take what they wanted from me. That day I’d realized that there are only two types of people in this world—the people who do the DOING, and the people who have stuff done to them. I knew which I wanted to be.
Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, with Mom’s sharp, shiny scissors in my hand, I took another strand of hair and placed it between the blades.
Snip.
I knew that when I walked into school the next day, they were all going to know how I felt. They were all going to feel the hatred radiating out from me. Good. Fuck ’em! I wanted to take this hate that was inside of me and shove it down their fucking throats. Make them choke on it.
As the pile of hair on the floor grew bigger and bigger, I found myself feeling stronger and stronger. When I walked into a room from this moment on, everyone was going to know that Cherie Currie was here. All of the Winnie the Wolfs of this world, all the Dereks of this world, all of the kids in school who thought they were tough . . . All of the jocks and the snobs and the dweebs! I wanted them to fear me, to know that you do not fuck with Cherie.
No more wimpy surfer Valley girl.
No more pretending.
If I was going to be the glitter queen at night, then that’s what I’d be during the day as well. No more trying to fit in: if they didn’t like it . . . tough shit.
Neon Angel Page 5